'It's a tale as old as time - a rich, powerful man ditches his loyal life partner and mother of his children to 'trade up' for a younger more beautiful model.

The main problem with this scenario is that, at some point, sense will perforate the rich powerful guy's ego and he will wonder, does she really love him? Or is she just in this for the money, the power and in some cases the fame?

When this happens, what is a guy to do? Drunken rages are always popular. Accusations of cheating practically de rigueur. Scrawling said accusations in blood and blue paint across the wall? That's a new one for us but perhaps in Hollywood it's just as normal as egg white omelettes. Johnny Depp and Amber Heard have finally settled their differences and their divorce with Johnny allegedly digging deep in his wallet. No doubt that hurt but possibly not as much as the emergence of the videos and photos showing Johnny doing his own, very disturbing, version of Edward Scissorhands. If only there was an Oscar for deluded older men, eh Johnny?

Pat Hickey answering the door in his nip left us Morto

Pat Fitzpatrick

Patrick Hickey, President of the Olympic Council of Ireland

Dublin was voted the world's third friendliest city this week. Galway came sixth. That's not what comes up if you Google 'Ireland's reputation abroad.' Actually it does, but well down the page from 'drug-cheats, bad losers and alleged ticket touts.'

This would be bad enough for most countries. But most countries don't suffer from The Morto. It's defined as a sense of anxiety caused by worrying that other countries won't think we're the soundest people of all time. We were almost permanently cured after the exploits of our soccer fans in France, followed by the O'Donovan brothers, Annalise Murphy, Thomas Barr and a gracious Katie Taylor. Another poll confirmed what we love to suspect - Irish people are right up there with the friendliest in the world. Sound men and women the lot of us. The kind of people you could trust.

And then Pat Hickey, above, answered his hotel door in the nip. Oh Jesus, The Morto. We've probably never had it so bad.

The rosary for the Roses?

Donal Lynch

Roses are red, violets are blue, poems are over as a party piece at the Rose Of Tralee, and this audience member says … boo. The idea that a little homespun literature is slowing down the most homely beauty contest in the world is like suggesting that a few crocuses could slow a glacier. Even if one of them opted to say a few decades of the rosary or assemble an IKEA bed, it really wouldn't make much difference to the meandering pace of the two-night festival of tweeness.

But what the new ban will do is force the poor Roses into performing bits that they don't have the talent for. There will likely now be singing. And a dusting off of musical instruments that haven't been seen since school. And nobody need come crying to us if it all gets a bit Britain's Got Talent with juggling or Riverdance takeoffs. Or if one of the Roses decides it's still all too slow and raises a Black Power-style fist in support of Repeal the Eighth onstage. Daithi is no doubt trained and armed for such manoeuvres. But by the time it's all over we might be praying for the rosary.